


Hands Like That Shouldn’t Carry Rifles

by Roundworm



Series: Pure unadulterated fluff [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Fluff, Love at First Sight, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Pre-Canon, Slurs, just a nice heaping of fluff in there mostly for myself, well it’s just once very briefly but it’s still there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22670002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roundworm/pseuds/Roundworm
Summary: How fast can one man fall? If there was a world record, Tom was sure he’d broken it at this point. Leave it to him to like a guy just because he wrapped a cloth around his hand once and pet his hair for a couple seconds.Well, he was also cute, but that’s besides the point.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: Pure unadulterated fluff [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1716283
Comments: 28
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what I watcheeeed  
> Well it’s been a week or two but it’s still fresh in my mind considering I watched it twice,  
> No matter how many fics are in the Blakefield tag it won’t be enough so I’m here to just kinda. Throw this out there into the abyss. 
> 
> Tom’s POV!

“Private!” 

Tom Blake, fresh out of boot camp and immediately shoved into the trenches, startled awake, clutching his rifle tightly to his chest. Fuck, he’d fallen asleep on duty again, hadn’t he? The Sergeant’d have his head this time for sure.

“Yes, Sir!” He straightened up his back and offered a stiff salute. Sergeant Sanders scowled down at the boy.

“You,” He pointed an accusing finger at Tom, who shrank back just slightly. “Are on water duty.”

A lighter punishment than he should’ve gotten, sure, but a pain in the ass nonetheless. Tom suppressed a groan and stood up on wobbly legs, still heavy with sleep. “Yes, Sir!” He repeated.

“Go with him.” He heard the Sergeant speak to someone else, but Tom was too busy collecting canteens under the amusement of his peers to glance back and check who it was that had the misfortune of accompanying (chaperoning) him.

Tom trudged off towards their fresh water source, arms full of canteens clanging noisily against each other. He was vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps following along behind him.

“Hands full?” Tom thought he recognized the voice, but he had to check. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed it: Lance Corporal Schofield, about three years his senior and looking every single bit of it.

Tom grumbled under his breath, feeling every bit Schofield’s junior.

Schofield half-jogged to catch up to him, falling in tandem with his steps. Tom caught the sight of an offered hand and begrudgingly passed half of the canteens to his companion. 

They continued down the path in silence, Schofield apparently satisfied with the exchange. Tom was not.

“So you’re here to, what, make sure I don’t slip and drown in the river?” He asked upon reaching their destination, an edge of frustration to his voice. Schofield didn’t react outwardly, instead choosing to kneel beside said river and begin filling the empty canteens in his arms.

“Suppose so.” Schofield finally responded about halfway through his assignment. “Or to make sure you don’t drop dead from exhaustion.” 

Tom scoffed under his breath. “Like Sarge cares about that.”

“Course he does. That’s one less man to fight his battles.” Schofield answered almost immediately this time, his tone rigid. Tom couldn’t help a humorless snort of laughter.

“I guess so.” 

It took quite a while longer before they spoke again. Normally, Tom would be bouncing off the walls trying to befriend this guy, but dammit—he was groggy and angry and just barely an adult. 

“Fuck—!” Like a terrible joke, Tom’s earlier accusation came true as his foot lost traction on the slippery bank and he lurched forward towards the river. He held his hands out instinctively to catch himself, but only succeeded in puncturing his hand on a jagged rock beneath the surface. 

Like a flash, Schofield grabbed onto the neck of Tom’s vest and yanked him back before he completely submerged. The older man’s eyes were a bit wild, a bit panicked, and Tom didn’t have time to think too deeply as to why before the pain hit him. He clutched his injured hand with his free one, curling in on himself and gritting his teeth to keep from crying aloud.

“Your hand.” Schofield dropped the supplies bag from his back with one hand while the other gripped Tom’s arm. “Show me your hand.”

Blake forced his eyes to open from where they were squeezed shut and tried to extend his arm, but he couldn’t let go of the hand for fear of even greater pain. Schofield looked up from where he was digging through his bag and took note of this. He retrieved a roll of bandages from the depths of the pack and forcibly tugged Tom’s hand free. This time, Tom did cry out. Schofield hushed him like one would a child who skinned his knee—he really should feel insulted by this, or angry, but somehow it relaxed him… just a bit.

Schofield began wrapping the bandage tightly around Tom’s hand with the unshakable confidence of a man who’d done this a hundred times over.

‘God,’ Began Tom’s internal mantra, which started out as a comfort and slowly devolved into self degradation. ‘how fucking useless can you be? Can’t even wrap your own wounds? What, does poor baby Blakey need his boo-boo kissed as well?’ He clenched his jaw. ‘Joe’d be ashamed to call you his brother.’ 

“You’re a farm boy, yeah?” Schofield asked, clearly grasping at straws to calm him down. Tom’s head snapped up to attention.

“Huh?”

“I’d heard you mention it a couple times. It’s just that your hands are soft.” The older man didn’t look up from where he was wrapping the wound. “Didn’t expect it, is all.” 

Tom slouched back into his earlier position, tugging his free hand harshly on his pant leg to distract himself from the pain.

“Yeah.” He huffed out through his teeth. “The joys of boyhood makes me soft.” 

Schofield fell silent, tucking the last of the bandage into itself to hold it in place. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Tom furrowed his brow. Schofield didn’t let go of his hand.

“Well… isn’t it?” 

Schofield stared down at his hand. Tom took this lull in conversation to actually look at his senior—the subtle tightening of his jaw, the crook in the bridge of his nose, how… tired he looked. Something dead behind his eyes. Schofield’s hands entirely dwarfed his own, dried mud caked his knuckles and dug beneath his nails.

Schofield was, he slowly realized with growing horror, very attractive.

Tom wanted to die.

“It’s not.” He finally answered. 

________________________

It was loud and raucous in the tents, and sometimes Tom didn’t want to hear it. He stole away to the field outside, having seen a certain someone do the same a few minutes before. He flexed his hand at the memory associated with the man, still punctured but with new bandaging. 

So maybe he wanted to be alone with a new potential friend—big deal!

Right?

Pushing that thought aside, he wandered and squinted until he could see the faint outline of a man and a tree before the sun completely sank. Tom made a beeline—a subtle one, to be sure—and approached Lance Corporal Schofield, leaning against the lone tree with his eyes closed but surely not asleep.

“Mind if I join you?” He asked quietly, subconsciously trying to set himself apart from the dull roar inside the tents. Just as Tom suspected, one of Schofield’s eyes opened a crack to examine who’d interrupted his lean-on-a-tree-and-look-mysterious time.

“‘Course.” Schofield assented, resuming his sacred ritual of being stupidly hot without trying. Tom scowled to himself, hidden in the movement it took to sit down parallel to the older man. 

“Thanks. ‘S bloody loud up there, couldn’t stand it much longer.” 

Schofield made a little humming sound, acknowledging his perfect excuse. 

“I thought you liked all the talk.” He responded. “Pegged you for the type, at least.” Tom blew out his breath all at once and flopped onto his back.

“Not always. A growing boy needs his beauty sleep, after all.” He smiled to himself at the telltale sound of amusement, albeit small and quiet. Schofield turned his head minutely to glance over at Tom, and it was too dark by that point to properly overthink what that look might have meant. 

“How’s your hand?” Schofield asked then, nodding to Tom as if he’d’ve forgotten a chunk of his own hand had been gouged out in the river just that morning.

Tom looked down at his hand, as if he had, and flexed it again. He winced this time as a jolt of pain shot up through his arm. “Better,” Tom supposed. “Not great, though.” 

Schofield clasped his own hands together atop his stomach and fell silent, as he is so fond of doing.

“Hey,” Tom grabbed his attention once more, propping himself up on one elbow and grinning slyly. “Come here often?”

Schofield released a startled kind of laugh and stretched one leg out to kick Tom’s arm out from underneath him.

“I do. Don’t like all the noise in the tents,” Schofield peered at him. “Usually coming from you.” Tom made an affronted noise from where he’d collapsed in a heap.

“I’m not that loud.” Tom argued, but there was no bite to it. Phase one of his friendship plan was a success: he made Schofield laugh. Tom thought for a moment, became curious, and peered right back at Schofield. “Do you sleep out here too?”

Schofield took a while to respond, apparently having to think very hard about his answer. “Sometimes.” He conceded, and Tom wondered if he did that on purpose just to psych him out. “‘S not any more uncomfortable than the beds—or the dirt in the trenches, as it were.” 

“You’re right about that one.” Tom scrunched up his nose in distaste at just the thought. “I swear they just put wooden planks on those bed frames.” Schofield nodded, deadly serious. 

“Probably.”

Another lapse. Tom could feel his eyelids drooping—with all the excitement of, y’know, trekking back to the trench with a hole in his hand and arms full of canteens heavy with fresh water, he’d almost completely forgotten how tired he was earlier. Picking up on this, Schofield settled back into a more comfortable position, content to leave the conversation there for the day.

It was pitch black by the time Tom’s eyes opened again, although it felt like he’d only closed his eyes for a second. If he had to guess, he’d say it was at least midnight, maybe a bit later. He couldn’t see his watch in the dark, and the moon was either new or covered by heavy clouds.

Tom huffed in annoyance at his inability to sleep through the full night and rolled over on his side, apparently forgetting—or perhaps not even realizing in the first place—how close he was to Schofield. He felt his forehead bump against what must have been the older man’s leg and cursed inwardly. It’d be awkward to turn back around now. 

‘More awkward than cuddling with another man’s calves in the middle of the night?’ His brain asked unhelpfully. He promptly told his brain to sod off—not a completely uncommon occurrence.

Tom wondered, as he felt Schofield shift against the sudden pressure on his leg and mumble something under his breath, if the man ever slept. He certainly didn’t look it.

It was after what could have been a couple minutes or a few seconds and Tom was finally starting to drift back to sleep that he felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time: a hand, nervous and halting, just barely touching his skull. He figured he was hallucinating from lack of sleep and shuffled into a more comfortable position. If he was closer to Schofield than he was before, it was a complete coincidence.

The hand immediately retreated at the slightest sign of movement, but slowly eased back to its original spot as Tom stilled. There was no way to write it off as his imagination this time when Schofield began carding his fingers through his hair. 

Tom fought to stay awake even though everything was working against him, if only to feel this small comfort for as long as he possibly could before the sun came up again and they were labeled queers. It was ridiculous, really, how badly he wanted to stretch himself across Schofield’s lap and soak up every second of his undivided attention for the rest of his life.

How fast can one man fall? If there was a world record, Tom was sure he’d broken it at this point. Leave it to him to like a guy just because he wrapped a cloth around his hand once and pet his hair for a couple seconds. 

Well, he was also cute, but that’s besides the point.

Schofield’s hand grew steadier, the subtle trembling of his fingers having settled at the lack of reaction from the boy next to him. Tom felt like crying, just a bit. He ached so deeply for this gentle affection that the military lacked; that his mother offered freely back home. That his brother could not give while he was away.

Tom hardly noticed it when he moved to hug Schofield’s legs. By the time he did, of course, the hand disappeared just as quickly as before. 

“...Private…?” Schofield’s voice was barely above a whisper and blew away in the wind. Tom knew what that voice meant, what the mention of rank implied: Are you aware that you are trying to snuggle up with a fellow soldier? Are you awake? 

Are you insane?

Tom didn’t answer, of course, because the answers were obvious. It was easier to continue feigning sleep than to confront the situation. He felt like crying again.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Tom’s voice came out shaky and rough once he realized that Schofield would definitely not continue without an explanation—not to mention, he was never very good at faking sleep. “My mum used to do that, what… you were doing.” 

Schofield went silent again. Tom was slowly growing to despise that silence of his.

“‘M sorry…” The younger man began to retreat.

“No, it’s—“ Schofield rushed out, freezing him in his tracks. “It’s alright.” 

Tom kept his eyes shut tightly, waiting for some kind of violence despite his words. The only thing that happened was the feeling of a hand through his hair returning. Tom did cry this time, a silent, gracious cry.

“That can’t be comfortable.” Schofield was probably referring to the way Tom was practically crushing his face against the side of his leg. Tom laughed wetly. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” He replied. 

Schofield tutted and removed the hand from his hair. “Here, come up here.” He urged. “Just a bit, at least get your head off the ground.” Tom raised his head to look up at him, thankful that the moon remained hidden and, by consequence, his tear-streaked cheeks underneath shiny, hopeful eyes were as well.

Tom hesitantly moved along the ground until his head was beside Schofield’s thigh. He hadn’t been beaten back with a stick yet, so he bit the bullet and rested his head there, just an inch or so above his knee. Schofield, instead of perhaps shooting him point blank, resumed.

“Thanks…” Tom’s speech slurred from exhaustion, drunk from the attention.

“Don’t mention it.” Schofield said—meaning it both ways, he’s sure. 

If Tom dared to hope, he imagined there was a hint of fondness in Schofield’s voice. But, of course, hope is a dangerous thing, so instead he drifted off into a sleep devoid of such dreams.

________________________

When Tom awoke the second time, it was to a much more familiar alarm: the sound of whistles and yelling. He sat up straight as a board in a second, noting that he was laying about three feet away from where he’d fallen asleep with his head on Schofield’s lap.

He didn’t have time to be disappointed before a hand appeared in the corner of his vision, roughly calloused and perpetually dirty. Tom followed the arm attached to the hand with his eyes and was pleased to find that Lance Corporal Schofield was the one it belonged to. 

Tom took the offered hand and pulled himself up from the ground, gathering his kit from where it was laying beside him. 

“How’d you sleep?” Schofield’s question was innocent and inconsequential to other soldiers who spilled around them in the trenches later that day. Tom couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face.

“Like a baby.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hasn’t been long since the pair had properly met and Will was a bit wary about how quickly Blake had wormed his way into his life. He supposed that war would do that to men, would make them bond faster, but… Will rubbed his chin, scrutinizing Blake, as if he could determine what spell the boy had cast on him with just a look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this is the last one I swear, I just couldn’t help it,,  
> Scho was definitely harder to write for, but I tried my damndest and I’m happy enough with the results
> 
> Y’all know it’s Will’s turn on the POV

“Lance Corporal! Lance Corporal!” 

Will allowed himself a small, private smile while his back was turned before he composed himself. He knew who it was that was plodding towards him through the mud without looking, though that may not be such a hard thing to do. It’s not as though there were a lot of people who would call for him so cheerfully.

As he suspected, when he turned around he spotted Private Blake, struggling to lift his boots free from the Earth.

“Oi! Don’t you laugh at me!” 

“I wasn’t.” Will lied through his teeth, the aftermath of said laugh still tugging at his lips. Blake finally managed to waddle his way to Will’s side, scowling at him the whole time. 

It hasn’t been long since the pair had properly met and Will was a bit wary about how quickly Blake had wormed his way into his life. He supposed that war would do that to men, would make them bond faster, but… Will rubbed his chin, scrutinizing Blake, as if he could determine what spell the boy had cast on him with just a look.

“Slow down for the little guys.” Blake huffed. Will had to turn his back again to hide another laugh. 

“Oh come on, you’re not that much shorter than me.” Will chose to check his pack for the umpteenth time instead of looking at his companion any longer.

“Maybe, but you’re all leg.” Will hummed in acknowledgement, satisfied with what he still had in his pack. “Anyway!”

Blake hopped a few steps ahead to face Will, immediately sinking into the mud in front of him with his hands on his hips. “I’m here to volunteer my services for the task you’ve been assigned!” 

“You even know what the assignment is?” Will asked, a fond amusement bubbling up inside of him when Blake faltered a bit.

“Well—“ He started, but clearly had nowhere to go with that line of thought. “No, I guess not.” Blake finally admitted.

“I’ve been sent up to assist in digging the trenches.” Will nodded his head further along the muddy wasteland, cringing internally at the thought of all that grime and dirt covering him again. Digging was by far and away his least favorite task, but war is war he supposed.

Blake cringed externally. Will thinks he likes that about him.

“Ah… I see.” He muttered, pulling his leg back out of the mud with clear difficulty. 

“You’re free to join, of course.” Will kept his face straight, but he couldn’t help the twitch in the corner of his mouth. Blake furrowed his brow, thinking deeply. What exactly about, Will couldn’t tell. Maybe the pros and cons of digging a trench? 

Will couldn’t think of many pros—at least, none for Blake.

“Well,” Successfully extracted from the mud, Blake spoke again. “I already said I‘d volunteered, so… might as well go through with it, right?” 

Will could name just about twenty different ways Blake could have opted out off the top of his head—and about twenty more reasons why he should have. But then, if he did, he wouldn’t be spending an extra few hours in Blake’s overwhelmingly bright presence, would he? 

“Suppose so.” Will said instead, adjusting his kit and beginning the disgusting trek across the mud and to the trenches. He heard the wet slapping of boots plodding along behind him and took extra care to shorten his steps. 

________________________

“Why…” Blake wheezed through his teeth a few feet away from Will. “Why did I volunteer?”

“You chose to do this?” An incredulous voice came from somewhere further up the line. Will took note of the lack of privacy.

“Because you’re a bit daft, clearly.” Will wiped his forehead with a dirty sleeve, only succeeding in making his face muddier. Blake seemed too worn out to do much else than flip him the bird. 

Blake muttered something under his breath, his face a splotchy red and his arms shaking a little from the constant exertion it took to stab a shovel through the ground. Will had to remind himself, once again, about the lack of privacy.

“Come on, then!” They heard a whistle blow far too closely to their ears. “We don’t have all day!” Sergeant Sanders made his rounds, then stopped cold behind Blake. “Private Blake!”

“Yes, sir!” Blake immediately straightened up, dropping his shovel to salute even without turning around to face the Sergeant.

“I don’t recall sending you up here.” He said in an accusatory tone. “Explain yourself.”

“I, uh— I wanted to make myself useful, sir!” Blake responded after some fumbling with words. Sergeant Sanders narrowed his eyes. Will couldn’t decide whether to laugh or take pity on him, so he chose to do neither and continue digging. The boy brought this on himself, after all.

“Well, you won’t be useful with your shovel on the ground.” The Sergeant continued on along the line after an unnecessary amount of silence. “Carry on, Private.” 

“Yes, sir!” Blake scrambled to pick his shovel back up. This time, Will did laugh. Just a small chuckle, but it was loud enough for Blake to hear. Imagine Will’s surprise when his sideways glance was greeted not with another middle finger, but with a stifled grin. 

Blake seemed well proud of himself, strangely. Will tore his gaze away to focus on the wall of dirt ahead of him. He could tell that these would be some very long hours.

Long hours they were, but they were worth it, in a way. Sergeant Sanders called them off duty and replaced their group with another band of unlucky saps. Will shook the numbness from his arms and trudged back through the downstream of the trench. He felt dead on his feet and his body was practically screaming for a rest—what else is new—but some part of him really hoped that Blake would continue following him. He seemed fond of doing that, these days. Will would be lying if he said he wasn’t fond of it too, just a little bit.

Will all but collapsed in one of the only spots devoid of mud. It didn’t take long until he heard a telltale groan of effort as Blake laid down next to him. 

“I regret everything I’ve ever done that’s led me to this point.” Blake’s voice was muffled. Without looking, Will assumed that he was face down.

“It’s about time.” He mumbled, even the act of speaking too much work. Blake made a noise that probably meant something along the lines of ‘piss off’. Will smiled to himself.

He heard a lot of shifting around on Blake’s part and closed his eyes, guessing—rightly—that he was flipping himself over onto his back. Then he fell silent. Will chanced one eye open, just to check.

Blake, too, had his eyes closed, his chest still heaving from the aftermath of hours of manual labor. But Will knew that Blake had gone through the same training that they all had; the boy was in no worse shape than any of the other soldiers in their regiment. He also knew, deep down, that Blake was not actually a ‘boy’. He was a man, albeit a young one.

Will couldn’t help it, though, to see Blake as a boy, at least in part. It seemed that no amount of training could rid him of the last of his baby fat. Although there was a sharpness to his jaw, his face was round and incredibly soft looking. He remembered the feeling of Blake’s hand when he bandaged it, how much Blake hated his softness. 

Will quite liked Blake’s softness. 

He stretched his arms out, to get feeling back into them, and rolled over onto his side. Will made it a point to not face Blake—out of sight, out of mind as they say.

But of course, the world is not so kind. Now that Blake had weaseled his way into Will’s thoughts, he’d decided to make a home of them. Bastard.

What began as the sort of care one has for a younger sibling, or a lost dog perhaps (that description seemed more accurate, considering how he pet the boy to sleep that one time) turned into something he dared not to put a name to even in his own mind. Attraction, most likely. This phenomenon happened somewhere between Blake laying his head in his lap and discovering that he had a light smattering of freckles on his cheeks when Will stared too long once.

It’s also quite difficult to not like someone who so clearly enjoys being around you—or at least, someone who’s very good at faking it for whatever reason. Will wasn’t sure what end Blake could possibly be striving for if he was pretending. Maybe to befriend every single soldier in the British armed forces? Wouldn’t put it past him, though he’d certainly have his work cut out for him. 

Will’s pretty confident in the fact that the excitable puppy act only worked on him because he’s rather protective by nature. Growing up with sisters will do that to a guy. Maybe he was just a sucker for a pair of bright, blue eyes, even if they belonged to another man. 

He tried to think of other things then, when he was reminded of that certain detail. He thought back to a couple of months ago, when he found a small book of poetry in the Bibliothèque municipale de Nancy when they were first deployed in France. He wondered if he still had that book, wondered if his French was too rusty to understand the words anymore. Maybe he should dust up on his French.

Then, he wondered if Blake was fond of poetry too, and the cycle continued.

“Hey…” Speak of the Devil, Will heard Blake address him. Even his voice was so clearly exhausted. He had no idea how or why Blake was still trying to talk to him. Will grunted to indicate that he was listening, but couldn’t guarantee a response. “Why are you so quiet all the time?” 

Will, predictably, went quiet for a while.

“Just always have been.” He answered eventually, although he wouldn’t be surprised if Blake had fallen asleep in that span of silence. “Didn’t really talk to the other boys in school if I could help it.” Will shifted a bit, rolled over again onto his back. “‘S not like anyone tried to talk first, you know.”

“Hmm.” In Will’s peripheral, he could see Blake turning his head to the side slightly, just enough to look at him. Theoretically. “Their loss. I like talking to you.”

His heart skipped a beat. He turned his own head towards Blake, greeted by a coy little smile.

“Even if you are a nobhead sometimes.”

Will whacked Blake’s arm with a limp hand, unable to stave off his own grin. “Pot, meet kettle.” 

________________________

He was in deep, deep shit. 

Will and Blake had laid in that one spot for an hour or so by now, occasionally striking up conversations—although it was mostly Blake asking questions and Will answering vaguely, sometimes deflecting. He should be irritated at how curious and somewhat invasive Blake was, but he wasn’t. 

And there lies the problem. He enjoyed the Private’s company, including his curiosity. In fact, Will actually wanted Blake to know him, much more so than anyone else. He wanted to tell the boy—the man, rather—about how neat he always kept his flat back home, how much of a clean freak he was normally when he didn’t have to crawl around in mud all day, or about his nieces and how tiny their hands were when he held them, how much he missed them but couldn’t stand to see them again while the war was still going on. When he could be called back at a moment’s notice.

It went both ways as well though, because Will so desperately wanted to know Blake too. He’s sure that Blake would be more than willing to indulge him, but Will couldn’t ask.

Will had always been rather guarded in general, but he’d never hated that fact as much as he did now. He couldn’t even bring himself to answer his questions properly, much less ask Blake anything of his own accord.

“Aren’t you tired?” Will asked instead. Blake paused with his mouth half open, then he closed it. 

“I am, aren’t I?” He murmured. Will snorted a quiet little laugh. “Hey,”

“Yes?” Will replied for the twentieth time.

“Can I call you Scho?” Blake’s eyes were bright, his grin mischievous. “Lance Corporal Schofield is such a pain to say.”

Will released a long breath. “If you want to.” Blake finally seemed satisfied for the afternoon.

Will wasn’t quite satisfied himself, there was still way too much to talk about. But he left it there. They made way more progress in their friendship in a couple of hours than Will had made in his entire childhood.

In another hour he’s sure they’d be called back, maybe reprimanded for sleeping in the middle of the day when they could be doing something productive, but Will was okay with it, so long as they did this again sometime.

Preferably soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I know that Will’s photograph is actually his wife and kids but that’s a story for another day and this is my story
> 
> Will CAN have a little infidelity though, as a treat


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentally, Tom put together a list. A bullet point list specifically, of things that he knew about Schofield.
> 
> • He does not have a wife  
> • He is scared of thunder  
> • 
> 
> It was a pitiful list, yes, but it was a start. Tom would need a lot more than that to even fancy the thought of making a move, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS. IS THE LAST ONE I SWEAR
> 
> I couldn’t leave it like that,,,, I had to finish it...,,..., 
> 
> Tom has returned to his rightful place on the POV

Tom was jolted awake by the sound of an admittedly distant thunderclap. He looked up at the night sky, devoid of rain but lighting up periodically from the lightning, and groaned in annoyance. Great, a dry thunderstorm. Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about waking up in a puddle of mud in the morning. He settled down in the grass and attempted to go back to sleep. 

It was after the second boom that he heard a sharp inhale from beside him. Tom turned his head, curious, to find the normally stoic Schofield trembling with his hands curled up into fists at his sides.

“Scho…?” He asked quietly, stifling a yawn into the back of his hand. Schofield’s head snapped towards his direction, eyes wide, before he seemed to shove everything down and revert to a facsimile of his usual self. Tom could still see the way his hands shook.

If Schofield didn’t want him to know that he was afraid, then Tom would take on the role instead. He sat up and shuffled closer to his senior, curling up against his side. 

“Never liked storms,” Tom muttered. “Used to sleep in my mum’s bed when they hit back home. Is this okay? Being around people calms me down.”

Schofield released a slow, shuddering breath. “‘S alright.” He responded after a minute or so. 

They sat in silence for a while, huddled together, until another clap of thunder rumbled the ground and Schofield very obviously flinched. It was awful, seeing him scared like that.

Tom freed his hand, the one trapped between his and Schofield’s bodies, and gingerly lifted Schofield’s arm to tuck himself underneath it. The older man pulled Tom flush to his side instinctively. His hands were still shaking.

“Y’know, this reminds me of the time my brother and I got locked out in a downpour a few years ago.” Tom piped up eventually, forcing down the blush that resulted in being so close to the person he fancied. ‘Now is not the time, goddammit’.

Schofield indicated that he was listening with a small hum, prompting him to go on.

“So we was messing around in the yard, yeah? And out of nowhere Joe sees these huge storm clouds rolling in from the East. I blew it off of course, cuz I didn’t want to go back inside yet, but he kept pushin’, so we went up to the door.” Tom really hoped that he was distracting Schofield well enough. “What we didn’t know was our mum had left, to go to the shops and all, and she’d locked all the doors behind her. So Joe’s jigglin’ the handle and I’m lookin’ around for an open window or something (couldn’t find any, mum’s real thorough with these things) and all of a sudden it starts just POURING rain.”

Schofield huffed out what might have been a chuckle, his head still on a swivel looking out for God knows what. Tom wriggled under his arm, just to get his attention back.

“Swear on my life, we’re out there for ‘bout an hour just waiting for mum to get home, completely soaked to the bone. By the time she gets back, the rain’s stopped and she’s wonderin’ why we’re standing outside the door dripping water all over her porch. Course, when we tell her, she’s laughin’ her bloody head off at our misery. I remember I had a nasty cold for a whole week after that.”

The older man laughed properly this time. “Sounds like you got into a bit of trouble back in the day.”

“Oh yeah,” Tom grinned. “I was an annoying little bugger.”

“I don’t believe it.” Schofield finally cracked a little smile, his shoulders dropped from their tense position. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Then, of course, there was another bout of thunder and lightning, and those shoulders went right back up. Tom wracked his brains.

“D’you know what makes thunder?” He asked, mentally cringing at his shitty solution. It made Schofield pause for a moment at least, if only to ponder how moronic Tom was.

“It has something to do with drastic temperature shifts, if I recall.” Schofield answered eventually, his brow furrowed. “The air around the lightning gets hot and the cooler air causes it to expand. Don’t really remember the specifics, though.”

“Huh,” Tom breathed a sigh of relief. “My mum used to tell me some story about a boy who caused it when he got angry. I reckon she was just tired of my constant questions.” 

“Now that I believe.”

Tom really, really hoped that he meant that affectionately. 

Amidst the lull in conversation, where the silence was drowned in thunder and the oppressing darkness cut through with flashes of lightning, Schofield’s trembling fingers found Tom’s wrist.

Tom opened his mouth to ask another goddamn question, perhaps one such as “why are you afraid of thunder”, or “why are you holding my wrist”, or maybe “can I please kiss your entire face”—although that one specifically wouldn’t have gone well, he’s sure. When those fingers pressed against the underside of his wrist, however, he understood, and promptly shut his mouth again.

Schofield was checking his pulse.

Tom assumed that the way his heart was aggressively hammering wouldn’t exactly soothe anyone’s nerves, but Schofield seemed finally able to take a full breath. 

Was he looking too far into this? Yes, of course he was—just because Schofield found comfort in the feeling of his heartbeat didn’t mean that it was… like that. Tom’s heartbeat just conveniently happened to be at arm’s length. But he was very talented at looking too far into things, and even better at hoping and dreaming.

“Scho—“ Another flash lit the sky, and the next clap of thunder followed far too closely for his taste. He immediately abandoned that line of thought, interpreting the display as a very clear sign to shut up straight from the big man upstairs Himself. “We should probably move.” 

Schofield made a noise that was equal parts acknowledgement and horror. 

“Come on,” Tom attempted to detach himself from his side, but Schofield held fast, tightening his grip on Tom’s wrist until it began to hurt. “Don’t make me drag you, Lance Corporal.” 

Schofield went stone-faced, as if he suddenly remembered where he was just by the sound of his title, and released Tom from his clutches almost robotically. He rose to his feet, although he stayed halfway crouched down just by instinct. Tom scrambled to follow his lead after a few seconds of bewilderment.

They made their way back to the trench—of course Earth decided to drop a storm on them the very night they were moved to an area without tents.

Schofield hopped down first, followed closely by Tom, then pressed his back against the dirt wall. 

Tom took a step closer, attempted to regain their earlier closeness, but Schofield gave him a look. He obediently crouched down against the wall as well, a few feet of space between them. He had half a mind to apologize, for assuming maybe, or for making him uncomfortable, but nothing came out.

They sat silently like that until Tom eventually fell back asleep. And Schofield? Damned if he knew.

________________________

Tom liked to think he was pretty good at reading people. At least, he thought so at one point, but now he’s so horribly unsure. He could usually pick up on signs from girls back home when they fancied him, but… well, Schofield wasn’t a girl, was he? Schofield didn’t fluster and giggle behind his hands, or coyly bat his eyelashes and twirl a lock of his hair around his finger. 

He tried to imagine that once, but just the thought made him burst out into laughter. 

Schofield was stoic and quiet, but he was also warm and gentle, and he was big, bigger than Tom at least, and he didn’t know why he liked that so much but he did. He was so hard to read, and it both frustrated and intrigued Tom. 

He should feel ashamed for this, or disgusted in himself, but… he didn’t, not really.

Tom was determined to figure him out though, because what else was he supposed to do to occupy his time? Every waking moment for him was spent trying to convince himself that he made the right choice, following in his brother’s footsteps, joining the military. Leaving his mother and his dog, and the peace he found underneath the shade of cherry trees. Schofield was a very, very welcome distraction.

But that seemed to cheapen the older man a bit. No, Schofield wasn’t just a distraction—maybe he was at first, but not anymore. He was a soldier, higher ranking than Tom. He was a man with an entire life outside of the trenches, outside of the war. He had a family, he could have an entire family all on his own. A wife, maybe a couple of kids.

Shit. He could have that, couldn’t he? Schofield never really spoke about his personal life. For God’s sake, the man could have a woman waiting for him back home. This thought began to occupy Tom’s mind instead, popping up every time he cast so much as a sideways glance at Schofield.

He had to know, or the guilt of lusting after a married man would eat him alive. So he brought it up one day, as casually as he could, while the pair sat away from the large group of noisy soldiers as they so often did nowadays.

“Hey Scho,” Tom twiddled his thumbs, tried not to look over at who he was speaking to. Schofield hummed, drowsily soaking up the rare moments of sun that broke through the thick clouds every now and then. “Y’know, you’ve never, uh… do you…” 

That casual thing wasn’t coming along too well so far.

“I was wondering, since, well—since you never really talk about yourself, WHICH! Is fine, by the way!” Schofield startled a bit at Tom’s sudden outburst, but otherwise didn’t react. So far. “I was just wondering if you, y’know, have a… family? Or something?” Tom shrunk further into himself with every word. “Back home?”

Schofield was silent for a moment (big surprise), then he sat up slowly, stretching his spine on the way.

“I suppose.”

“...You suppose.”

There was a tired look in Schofield’s eyes, more tired than he usually looked—which was a major achievement—but there was something wistful there too.

“Well,” Schofield began, and Tom sat up quickly, excited to learn even the tiniest crumb of information that he provided. “Not one of my own, if that’s what you’re asking.” He turned his head minutely to lock eyes with Tom, then shrugged. “Parents, a sister. Two nieces.” 

Tom couldn’t pin down what that look meant. He absolutely shouldn’t press further. That would be way too suspicious.

“No wife, then?” He pressed further. Schofield broke their eye contact.

“No wife.” He confirmed languidly, falling back down onto his back. “Quiet now, the sun is still out.”

Oh how far Tom could take that statement and run with it. Sure, he probably just meant that he wanted to take in the sun in silence, but there were so many other ways to interpret it, and Tom was happy to sort through every single option in his head.

No wife. No wife. He grinned and laid back down. No wife. 

Still another man, though. The grin dropped.

________________________

Mentally, Tom put together a list. A bullet point list specifically, of things that he knew about Schofield.

• He does not have a wife  
• He is scared of thunder  
• 

It was a pitiful list, yes, but it was a start. Tom would need a lot more than that to even fancy the thought of making a move, though. It was missing some key points, namely: Would he or would he not beat Tom down like a dog if he so much as looked at Schofield a certain way? 

Unlikely, but the fear was certainly still there. He’d never seen Schofield act violently or aggressive, but strange things happened to men who thought they were… in danger.

Tom sighed deeply, dropping his head between his knees. Idiot. He was such an idiot. By the time he lifted his head again, the man of the hour had taken a seat beside him. 

“Warn a guy next time!” Tom jolted back at the sudden sight. Schofield laughed in that subdued little way he favored.

“Sorry.” He apologized, as if he didn’t just need to look at Tom to be instantly forgiven for anything he could possibly do. “You looked occupied. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Tom cracked a weak smile. “Suppose you could say that.”

Schofield raised an eyebrow. “Alright?” 

“I can’t…” he sighed again, ran his hands through his hair. “...talk about it.” 

And that was that conversation. Schofield didn’t press things like Tom did, he was far more patient. Or maybe he just didn’t really care as much, but Tom didn’t quite like to think that way. Maybe he should, though. It doesn’t do to hold onto desperate hopes.

“Scho…” Tom spoke back up after what could’ve been a few seconds or a few minutes of complete silence. “Do you, uh… have you ever… thought about,” He gulped, audibly. Schofield eyed him curiously.

“Something… something that you shouldn’t…?”

Schofield was quiet again for a very long time. Well, it could’ve been a short time, to be honest, but time tended to feel longer when you’re having a conversation you don’t really want to have.

“Everyone has.” He finally answered. Tom waited desperately for anything else, but that was all Schofield had to say.

Does he do that on purpose?

“Yeah.” Tom took the out that Schofield was so clearly offering him. “I guess you’re right...” 

He raised his head, startled to find that the older man was staring at him. Blatantly.

If Tom dared to dream, which he didn’t, not much anymore, then he’d suggest that there was something deeper to the way that Schofield’s gaze seemed imploring, or hopeful. He dreamed, and he hoped, and he knew that he shouldn’t, but they’re at war and what the hell else could he do but dream and hope.

“I… do… a lot.” Tom breathed, snatching that out right back and throwing it away. “I…”

Fuck what he thought before, Schofield cared so much, and so deeply. Tom felt it in the way that he soothed him to sleep, in the way that his eyes flashed, panicked, when Tom almost canned it in the river. For every one time Schofield claimed that such things couldn’t exist in war, there were three more instances of the opposite. 

The fear that Tom felt slowly ebbed away the longer he maintained eye contact, that care bleeding into his body and lulling him, making him feel safe.

“I like you,” Tom blurted out, because he was young and impatient, and he wanted as deeply as Schofield cared. “So much, and—and I know that I shouldn’t, and it’s wrong and it’s awful but—but I can’t help it.” 

Schofield blinked once. Twice. Tom regretted ever opening his big mouth the longer that Schofield blinked.

“Blake,” He finally replied, just above a whisper. 

“I know that we can’t—that nothing can come out of this, not normally,” Tom pressed on, headstrong and undeterred by Schofield’s attempt to speak. “But we’re… fucking hell, we’re already at war, aren’t we? What’s one more problem?” 

“It’s hard to hide.” Schofield said quietly, not denying anything.

“I’ve been hiding my entire life.” Tom argued immediately. “And I’d rather die now with someone I care for than marry some bird later on that I have to pretend to love for the rest of my life.”

They stared at each other, challenging and tense. Hesitantly, Tom slid his hand across the grass between them, taking Schofield’s hand in his own and squeezing until it was shaking with exertion. The older man held on just as tightly. 

“I want to try.” Tom pleaded. “Please, please, can we try?”

Tom watched as Schofield searched his face for something. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he hoped that he found whatever it was. Schofield nodded eventually, just once, just barely, but it was there.

And Tom could not possibly ask for anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🥺🥺 I’m not completely happy with this but I feel soft so that’s good enough for me


End file.
